


Hazy days, lazy hours

by cordkitty



Series: One Shots and Prompts and Stuff for Lokil Lavellan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Romance, Solavellan, a lazy summer's day, all fluff, prompt, sfw, short piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordkitty/pseuds/cordkitty
Summary: Solas and his Lavellan enjoy a peaceful afternoon. Written with just such afternoons in mind, lying in the sun, and simply being. :)Listened to Tonny Bennet's 'The most beautful girl in the world' while writing it.





	

 

Even the birds are taking a siesta, and the crickets are too tired to start their song yet. Cats are lying, curled up, on patches of grass in the tall trees' cool shade to escape the sweltering summer heat.

Solas doesn't feel like moving a muscle. Noon is long past, but the heat is still so stifling, there is no room left in his happily tired mind for thought. It's blissful oblivion. It's as if all of Skyhold has come to a silent agreement that this day is not meant for work.

He is lying on his back, legs outstretched on the window bench - _their_ window bench - in the tiny, cramped room on the upper floor of the Herald's Rest. One arm rests against the back of his head, leaning against the wood panelled wall behind him, the other wrapped around her shoulders. She is on her belly, facing him, her eyes closed, her head resting on his chest. He can feel her weight on top of him. Her quiet voice rumbles softly through his body when she hums lightly, as a gentle breeze dances in through the window's half closed shutters and rustles through the dried pages of the book he was reading, and which is now lying, discarded, on a table. The sounds of a lute being plucked lazily are drifting up through the tavern, and she drums her fingers lightly to the song with its barely discernible melody. A sugary taste is still lingering on his tongue - was it the wine or her lips?- and he listens to the quiet. He won't move, doesn't want to, doesn't need to - except for every few minutes, when he manages to lift a heavy eyelid to make sure he's still here with her; he sees flecks of dust swriling in the rays of sunshine that manage to find their way into the room, then - and her legs swaying gently to the quiet music. She holds a pencil in the hand that is hanging limply over the side of the bench, and every now and then, she scribbles something in a small ornate book that's lying on the floor. He hears the soft musical scratching against the parchment. Her fingertips are smudged with ink; it makes him love her more. Her long hair is spilling over her back and against the dark red cushions on the window bench. He gathers up a strand and twirls it idly in his fingers. He remembers the cool nights they spend in a different kind of heat, and he smiles to himself, knowing that tonight will be just such a night. She must have heard him smile, because she opens her eyes again, and when she has focused on his face, she gives him a smile in return, sweet and wicked, her eyelids, too, still heavy. She slowly gets to her knees and moves towards him; her beautiful face gets closer and closer, and soon, her eyes fluttering closed again is all he can see.

Who _is_ this man - so content to just _be_ and let himself sink down into this moment that envelops him and of which he is a part. The memory of peace was long forgotten. He won't break it by speaking; he will wait, and hope, against hope, that it will simply linger on.

He hopes she will remember, afterwards. He will.


End file.
